"
His voice was little above a whisper. She could not see his face, but in
the dark her hand was raised and lips touched it.
"Martin!"
"After all, it's a narrow winding stair, and leads to a meagre chamber
where lives a poor fellow who loves his fiddle. Come."
The room was in darkness, but Martin guided her to a chair.
"Wait; we will have candles, four of them to-night, and we will pretend
we keep high festival. See, mistress, how bright the room is; there are
scarcely any dark shadows in it at all."
She turned to look, and then a little cry came from her parted lips.
Before her, his eyes fixed upon her, stood the man who had come to her
rescue at Newgate.
"You see, mistress, I did not forget," said Martin; and, taking up his
fiddle from a table, he went out, closing the door softly behind him.
There came a little cadence of notes--the laugh of the fiddle. Somehow
there was the sound of wailing rather than of laughter in it to-night.
CHAPTER XI
THE FUGITIVE AT AYLINGFORD
Barbara Lanison suddenly remembered how much she had thought of the man
who stood before her. For the first time she realised that not a day had
passed but those grey eyes had seemed to look into hers, even as they
did now; that the hours were few into which his image had not come.
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